


Saving Grace

by sojustifiable



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Soul Bond, Soulmate AU, but mostly just general depression and anxiety, vague insinuation of self harm and suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6672997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sojustifiable/pseuds/sojustifiable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything one person's soul mate writes on their skin will show up in the same place on the other. Too bad Maka doesn't believe in soul mates, and when strange writing starts appears on her arm, she doesn't want to get involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Having a soul mate is a rare thing these days, meeting them even less common. The mechanics of finding the single person with a wavelength to match one’s own were little known, only studied by a few historians who tried in vain to trace the patterns across time and space. Besides, the more people spread out, the harder it becomes -- among billions of people, how is anyone supposed to find a specific one? 

By modern times, soul mates have been reduced to hallway gossip, and between her disregard for such rumors and her disillusionment with the institution of marriage (one messy parental divorce later,) Maka puts no stock in the whole concept. Clearly, people aren’t meant to be together forever; they come and go. Of course, she isn’t so jaded as to disregard human contact completely -- her friends are very important to her, and she would consider dating if she ever came across someone who fit with her life goals of higher education and could match her in ambition.

She’ll just never have children so as not to put them through the same thing as her when her relationship inevitably ends like all others do. 

But she’s not cynical. 

She’s thoroughly confused when she’s stripping down to shower after the first day of the new school year and catches a glimpse of little black stars on her arms. They’re rough, as if doodled there in ball point pen, but she has no recollection of drawing them there. She had been wearing long sleeves all day, and doesn’t have a habit of drawing on herself to begin with. 

“What the hell?” Maka mutters and rubs at the marks. They smear a little, and, encouraged by this fact, she quickly gets in the shower and scrubs at them with soap and water until they’re gone. Maybe Tsubaki had drawn on her in class without her noticing. That had to be it. 

The next day, she wears a shirt with thumb holes so any of her friends who might be in an artistic mood won’t be able to scribble on her without her consent. Yet, when she dresses for bed that night, there’s a swirly sort of bracelet drawn around her wrist with little spirals spinning off it. 

Her stomach drops. The first thing that comes to mind is that she’s being possessed. The second, only slightly more rational explanation is that she must be having fainting spells that she doesn’t remember and no one will mention to her, and someone keeps drawing on her in the meantime. It doesn’t sit well with her. Another furious scrub is in order to erase the evidence, but this time the marks are harder to remove, as if they’ve been done in more permanent marker. Determination is Maka’s middle name though, and she rubs her skin pink with the washing. 

After that, she is vigilant throughout the day, checking the clock every few minutes just to make sure she hasn’t missed any time or dozed off. Ms. Azusa gives her a dirty look for it, probably suspecting her of not paying attention in geometry, but Maka is sure to work just as hard, just with frequent reality checks and frequent checks to her skin. Almost the entire day passes without event, until the end of her last class when she catches it in action. Jagged flowers with thorny stems appear stroke by stroke on her forearm. She can’t feel any pen, but the lines appear as clear as day. Her chair screeches across the floor as she throws herself back from the desk, yanking her sleeve back down anxiously.

“Maka?” Dr. Stein looks at her over his glasses from the board. “Class isn’t over for another ten minutes.”

“I’m going to throw up.” It’s the only lie that comes to mind quickly that will let her leave the room  _ immediately. _ Her first destination is the girl’s bathroom to actually fulfill her prophecy and promptly lose her lunch. Her second destination is the school library. Some rampant internet research is in order, and she will have answers, dammit! A ghastly creaking noise comes from the computer when she mashes the power button and she has to wonder if maybe possession is a serious issue. It’s the first thing she googles once the ancient machine wheezes to life and she can button mash her way on to world wide web. 

** Demon art posession **

**Ink appearing on arm**

**Drawings on skin I didn’t do**

Did you mean: soul  _ mate? _

Her hands clatter at on the keyboard in surprise -- google is clearly out to get her, but this warrants further searching. The first two pages turn up a lot of new age blogs about finding  _ The One _ , and how to get the most out of your tattoos. It takes nearly four before she gets anything resembling a scholarly article with cited sources. Now  _ this _ she can trust. 

_ Research on the subject of so called “Soul Mates,” or as I prefer to call them, Gravitated Pairs, has been difficult, as such pairs are difficult to find with today’s population growth. There is a fair amount of historic literature and lore on the matter, but without systematic data collection, there’s no telling what is fact from what is fiction. Some myths such as those in some East Asian cultures include an invisible red string, but this is but this is both unquantifiable and intangible, and therefore impossible to collect information on.  _

_ One common trends that has been examined is the “twin effect,” in which marks on the body of one half of the pair will appear on their partner as well. Unfortunately, I have only been able to find two documented studies of cases such as these, and only one of those two has photographic evidence, which can always theoretically be doctored.  _

Maka scrolls through the rest of the article, which seems to list off reported cases of this apparent soul mate phenomenon, but also refutes the possible flaws or fallacies in the reports -- usually just pointing out the lack of proof -- leaving her more confused than when she began. One line catches her eye, though, that equally concerns and comforts her. 

_ Many people have tried to seek out their soul mate simply by writing messages on their arms, but this usually fails since one has to have met their match before the process begins. Additionally, some have reported to have had their connection broken after a time, their relationship unable to flourish without encouragement.  _

Someone she’s already met? But, that could be anyone! Nevermind all the people she interacts with on such fleeting occasions as checking out in the grocery store -- they had done a classwide icebreaker on the first day of school. Being split into groups, changing groups, she must have  _ met _ two hundred people that day, but can only remember the names of a spare few. What if there’s some stray person who is supposed to be tied to her by fate, floating around the high school without even knowing it?   

The only thing keeping her from going insane is the hope that if she ignores it long enough, it will all go away. It should be  _ unable to flourish without encouragement.  _

Of course, the decision to pretend it isn’t happening doesn’t stop her from trying to figure out who the perpetrator is. The clear choice is to check her friends, but while Patty tends to doodle on  _ everyone _ , none of the pictures match, certainly not the style. Her artistic friend carries a plethora of colored markers around with her for creating eccentric designs all over her sister and Tsubaki. Maka used to let Patty draw on her arms, too, before these weird, spiky, not unattractive but certainly not  _ pretty _ in nature images started popping up. She wears long sleeves these days. 

Checking her friends quickly turns into checking everyone she comes across, but it gets tricky when their arms aren’t showing for whatever reason. Maka starts to wonder if her other person is looking for her, too. She pulls her sleeves over her hands. She doesn’t want to be found. 

It’s a cloudy Tuesday in October, the first time words appear rather than pictures. Maka had gotten accustomed to the types of designs that would litter her forearms, and is thoroughly taken aback to see writing scrawled on her skin. 

** THIS SUCKS **

Well then. She must be tied to an extreme pessimist -- that’s just  _ great. _ Even though she’d taken to leaving the drawings alone, she’s not here for this negativity. For the first time in weeks, she fanatically washes her arms in the shower. 

Once the notes start, they come in a downpour of self deprecation and a distrust in the system. Maka wonders if her Person (as she has decided to refer to them) had their diary snooped or what, because now their skin is the parchment for all the awful things they have to say about the world, their parents, and certainly themself. 

** This school is hell **

...confirms her suspicion that they must be a student.

** Sorry to be the disappointing son **

...lets her know her prospective match’s sex. She wishes she were more surprised; she’d been hopeful that it would be a girl (not that she intends on ever meeting this person) just to give her an idea of what kind of person she might like. Being fifteen and not particularly interested in  _ anyone _ isn’t easy, especially at sleepovers where the mantra of her friends quickly becomes a cult like chant of ‘who do you like?’ Maka has always hoped if she did like someone that it wouldn’t be a boy -- trust is a hard thing to finagle and being male doesn’t make it any easier to earn it from her.    

There is a truly horrifying saying she’d heard somewhere about girls being attracted to men like their fathers. She doesn’t think she could handle the heartbreak.  

No matter -- knowing some minimal information about her Person doesn’t pique her interest at all. Nope. She is not at all curious and definitely not checking the handwriting of her peers to find him. 

** I wonder if everyone is really as happy as they look **

**What’s the point?**

**What’s my purpose?**

Maka wants to be removed, wants to have some snarky internal response about how his arm is not a search engine and can’t solve his internal angst for him. Instead, she finds herself wondering if his parents know how depressed he is and if he’s getting any sort of help for his early onset existential crisis. 

** If there was a serial killer in Blake’s house he would tackle them instead or hiding in a closet **

She chokes. Blake? She knows a Blake, though not one that goes to this school -- the one across town is known for their wrestling team and had been the obvious choice for her childhood friend. It couldn’t possibly be the same Blake. How would some boy at her school know her next door neighbor? Unless… It was one of his friends and they hadn’t met on the first day of school, but the week prior when she’d gone to pick up her next door neighbor from his first practice.

Her soul mate is a wrestler? Life couldn’t get any worse.

** Gym makes me want to shoot myself in the foot just so I could be maimed enough not to go **

A sigh of relief rushes from Maka’s mouth before she can consider the dangerous implications of such self destructive thoughts. It crosses her mind that he’s  _ funny, _ and not just terribly down on everything all the time, though his brand of humor is dark, bordering on the macabre. Maka’s taste usually falls in the range of sensible, sweet, and things your grandmother would describe as witty, but somehow the notes and observations make her snort to herself.

At some point, five long, parallel lines become a near permanent fixture on her forearm. What they’re for, she does not know, but an array of dots mark their way along them, along with a curly mark on one edge and she’s back at it with the internet research to discover it’s sheet music. 

Maka immediately buys a beginner’s book for how to read music and shuts herself in the music department’s single practice room after school. But, as much as she double and triple checks which notes on the piano she’s hitting, it still sounds disjointed, like a broken down music box. Impatient with the fact that the  _ book isn’t helping _ , for once, she storms out in a rage, and then some ass with a bad attitude has the nerve to tell her that she needs more practice on her way out. 

Doodles almost fall off the map, replaced entirely with angsty anecdotes and line after line of discordant music. Maka tries her best to make sense of it, but even plugging the notes into a computer program spits out something dark and crashing. 

It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t make sense. His music certainly doesn’t make any sense. 

Maka feels like she knows him, in some way. There are things she knows about him that she doesn’t know about her friends, but the notion that it’s entirely voyeuristic doesn’t sit well with her. This person is just writing and drawing and composing on themselves as an artistic outlet -- he doesn’t even know she’s there. So, much as her desire to respond rises, her horror about doing so rises proportionally in three quarter time. 

There’s not enough courage in the world to come out of hiding. 

Some time in December, the music stops altogether. The art stopped a couple weeks before that. Maka’s soul mate is silent -- for a day. She wishes she was relieved that the connection is broken, but instead she misses it. She misses him.

With that horrifying conclusion fully realized, she wishes she could be relieved when he writes again after twenty four hours of radio silence.

** I can’t think properly **

**My brain feels like someone sucked the life out of it**

**I can’t remember the last time I was excited about something**

**I can’t tell anyone**

It’s hard to be relieved with worry twisting in her gut. Maka finds it hard to eat and sleep without thinking about how her Person is doing, without worrying over how they can feel so alone. Sure, there are parts of herself she doesn’t think her friends totally understand, but she still feels like she can tell them things, even if they don’t get why she doesn’t think she’ll ever fall in love or trust anyone. 

She finds herself checking constantly to see if He has written anything else. If only she could reveal herself, tell him she does care (against her better judgement and sense of self preservation.) What would he think, though? She knows for one thing he’d think he’s crazier than he does already. Her reaction at finding out she was bonded through ink to another person hadn’t been exactly calm and rational at the start, and this guy doesn’t seem to be the calm and rational type.

January first is the last straw. At the witching hour of four in the morning, all of Maka’s habit formed and fire forged girl squad is asleep except for her. She’d even scored the couch in Tsubaki’s tiny living room while the others are just in sleeping bags sprawled on the floor. Her soul mate is wide awake still, and so is she. He’d spent the evening in, alone, trying to compose while periodically scribbling it out, washing it off, and lamenting a lack of drive and ability, which Maka knows can’t be true. Even if she doesn’t know anything about music, she knows he cares about it enough to still be struggling through it amidst a huge depressive episode. 

Another arm full of ink is washed away and she swears she can almost feel the tingling from angry scrubbing. 

** Why do I even bother? **

She would scream at him if he were in front of her. 

** I would’ve been better off not being born **

**No one cares. No one would miss me.**

Maka rolls off the couch.

“Hmmf?” Her friend Liz peers up groggily from the floor.

“It’s nothing, go back to sleep!” Maka hisses, meanwhile making a break for the kitchen. Of course, rifling through kitchen drawers turns up nothing useful -- some people actually sort their rooms by uses unlike her scatterbrained papa. Her brain is buzzing  _ danger danger danger _ . Something has crossed a line. It’s not until she barricades herself in Tsubaki’s room she can find anything to write with. Top desk drawer only gives her pencils, and try as she might, Maka only ends up scratching herself. A pink highlighter will have to do. 

** I’M HERE **

She writes as big as she can, over the top of the black ink on her skin, she has to make an impression. While waiting with baited breath, she haphazardly searches through the rest of Tsubaki’s desk one handed until she finds a black pen, going over the lines again. The damage is done before she can even reiterate her presence though, tiny block letters appear in an empty corner.

** What the fuck? **

She wishes she hadn’t left her phone in the other room and could google how to tell your actual soul mate that they’re your actual soul mate. The trusty internet isn’t here to help her now, though, so she settles on:

** We’re connected, I guess, but I’m here **

He asks who she is, and she’s hesitant to tell him much, lest he seek her out, so she replies simply that she’s a person who cares. It’s just as embarrassing as she thought it would be to admit that she’s known about this for months, but she finds him to be just as flustered as she is, as much as she can tell through words and handwriting.        

** Did your parents find your diary or something?  **

**...My brother gave it to them, the snitch, how did you know?  **

** You started writing very suddenly and didn’t stop **

Prying him open is a tough task, but once he gets going, he really gets going, spilling details about his parents and his personal life. All these things, and she doesn’t know his name, though she’s not really sure she wants to know either. How could she look him in the eye knowing these fears and insecurities are eating him alive? 

Maka watches, notes that she’s still there and still paying attention, until the sun starts to rise. 

** I have to go -- my friends will be waking up soon ** **,** Maka writes hastily.

The response is slow, and when it shows up it only says,  ** Okay.  **

That doesn’t seem okay at all! Maka hastily scribbles,  ** Are you going to be okay by yourself?  ** While putting Tsubaki’s desk back in order.   

** I’ll live **

Maka wants to scoff but she’s too relieved to do anything but sink to the floor with a sigh. 

** You know, it might be easier to text or something… **

No, that would make it too real, too much like they’re friends. Friends are people who spend time together and have each other’s phone numbers. She gives an excuse, that this is more special anyway, and leaves him with a parting remark about looking up that paper she’d found on the whole subject of gravitated pairs. 

The house is quiet when Maka sneaks back downstairs, her friends still fast asleep from their late night of interrogating each other about their crushes. Maka tugs her sleeves down over her wrists, self conscious of the marks there. 

In the following weeks, after the initial shock, her Person is very chatty. Of course, he also stops leaving his heart on his sleeve in favor of sending her snarky jokes. Maka worries about him, though, the casually self deprecating comments, the nihilistic attitude -- he’s clearly not happy. What she doesn’t know is at what point it’s her place to suggest he talk to someone a little more adept than her.

She drops hints.

** Ms. Mjolnir is so nice,  ** she writes, trying to be subtle and probably failing. 

**Who’s that? **

Maka doesn’t want to just come out and say it, doesn’t want to make him feel like there’s something wrong with  _ him, _ just that she’s worried about him. She’s only actually met the counselor once, on the first day of school, but she certainly had seemed nice in that encounter. 

** Our guidance counselor, ** she answers.

** Is something wrong? ** Comes the rushed reply.  ** You can talk to me, you know, especially since I don’t even know who you are, it’s all anonymous and stuff. **

Her heart hurts. She should’ve known he’d jump to the conclusion that she has something bothering her. Little does he know that what’s bothering her is going to sleep each night not knowing if he’s alright. 

It takes her a month before she admits to him that she’s concerned.  

Amidst some spiky doodles around her wrist, she cautiously writes,  ** Are you okay? I’m worried about you.  **

** Why would you be worried? **

** You don’t really seem happy **

**What teenager is well adjusted? I’m fine. Sorry if I complain too much. **

She could scream -- that’s not it at all, but she doesn’t have the knowledge or capacity to explain herself, so she just starts lining his doodles in red while she thinks. 

Google really is her best friend.

** Depression in teens **

**How to help a friend with depression**

**How to do an intervention**

In the end, Maka goes to Ms. Mjolnir, who quickly tells her to just call her Marie and asks her how school’s going. Maka balks. She expected the conversation to start right in with what was bothering her, what was wrong, but Marie just asks her how she likes her classes. 

“My classes are fine… I guess. I like studying, so it’s usually easy for me,” Maka says, drumming her nails on her knee. 

“Oh, that’s nice. It’s your first year here, right? Which middle school did you come from?” Marie asks. She doesn’t write anything down, just sits in a chair facing Maka’s with a gentle smile on her face. 

“Death City,” Maka answers in such a rush she has to repeat herself. 

The small woman nods. “So you must be used to a big school already then. Has it been a good transition?”

“Marie -- school is fine for me,” Maka blurts. “I’m worried about a friend.”

Sweet blonde eyebrows knit together. “Oh.”  

“He’s just… always down on himself, and seems to have a stressful family situation--”

Marie stops her mid-sentence. “I need to tell you right now, mandatory reporting rules say if there’s a situation involving abuse, I’m required by law to--”

“I know how mandatory reporting works. It’s not like that, more just having a lot pressure.”

“Oh, alright. You know the same thing applies if someone has plans to hurt themselves or others, right?”

Maka nods solemnly. She’s done her research. “Yeah I know, I don’t think that’s an issue. At least, not right now… I was a bit worried before, but mostly I just think he’s probably depressed but doesn’t know it, and I don’t know what to do about it.” 

“That’s tough, trying to help a friend when you’re still young yourself and have so much going on in your own life.”

Maka startles. “What do you know about my life?” Surely the school wouldn’t be keeping records on the state of her parents’ marriage, or now the lack of one, though the two different addresses would be on file. 

She hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory, but Marie clearly looks surprised and backtracks fast. “Nothing, I just meant in general, as a high school student you must have a lot going on.” 

“Oh, yeah, true.” Maka sighs. 

“Anyway, about your friend, clearly he must talk to you about some things if you have this insight about his family life. What do you think the reaction would be if you were to bring it up?” 

Worst possible scenario, he blows up at her (as much as can be done through writing) or, would it be worse if he ignored her altogether? Yeah, she has to accept the fact that she likes having him in her life in some fashion. Best possible scenario? Maka hasn’t even considered how it could go right. 

Marie takes Maka’s silence as a sign to offer other suggestions. “You can always refer someone to me, too -- I know it can be seen as a breach of trust when you’ve been told something in confidence, but it can be the best thing in the long run.”

“No, I can’t do that.” Maka wrings her hands in her lap. It’s her job to be brave and say something, even if it’s hard. “I-- I’ll try talking to him, I guess.” 

Marie nods. “If that’s what you think is best. I certainly can’t force you to give someone up, but please feel free to make another appointment with me if anything comes up.”

Maka leaves the office with no more insight than when she came in, and her resolve is still low. This connection, which she had once hoped to be fragile, has become very important to her; she doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it. But, if she cares so much, shouldn’t his happiness come first? 

When she says she thinks he needs help, he takes it as a joke.

** Cart me off to the loony bin **

** I don’t mean that! You just seem really unhappy **

** Show me a 15 year old who IS happy **

He’s just so ornery it pisses her off and she goes a little overboard. If he wants it straight, she’ll give it to him straight.  ** There’s a difference between being unhappy and being depressed **

There’s nothing for a few minutes. Maka’s first instinct to apologize for saying anything, but she’s stubborn and she’s right. She won’t budge. She washes her arm in the school bathroom though, to make sure there’s a blank slate just in case he decides to come to his senses. 

The rest of the day passes, and Maka has to set a timer while she studies to check for messages every hour to keep herself from checking every minute. At exactly a quarter after ten, he starts writing something. No, she has not been watching the clock. No, she has not been wearing a tank top in the privacy of her room so that she’ll be able to catch his dark scrawl out of the corner of her eye. She waits with baited breath.

** You might be right **

She hadn’t expected a concession so early on. To be fair, it has been several hours, but it still surprises her that this is the first thing he says. In all the scenarios she’d run through, he always argued with her, so now when he’s saying she’s right, she doesn’t know what to do.

** Sorry I was harsh **

** I mean, I’m a shit head so… **

** I care about you **

She lets herself think it, lets herself say it. She cares about him. 

He writes,  ** I know,  ** and it’s probably the most cliched thing Maka has heard, or rather, seen, but it still tugs at her. He doesn’t stop there, though.

** I just don’t know what to do. I’ve been like this for so long. I don’t know if I even could be different **

Maka chokes.  ** You could start by talking to someone **

** I talk to you,  ** he replies.

** I don’t know what to say to really help though. I’m here for you -- but I don’t know how to make it better.  **

It’s so frustrating. If only she could just magically make everything better, but that’s not really the way it is, and they both know it. 

** You DO help make things better **

** Maybe, but it’s not enough. You deserve to be happy **

Her heart pounds while she waits for his reply. Will he go see Marie for counseling? Or will he just shut down again, shut her out for a few more hours, or a few days, or indefinitely. 

** What do I do though? I don’t want my parents to know **

This is a start, a very good start. Maka is rushed when she writes,  ** You can go talk to the counselor, she can’t disclose anything to anyone unless someone is hurting you or you’re hurting yourself **

** Oh. Okay,  ** comes the reply. It’s not a flat out denial of self destructive behavior, but not an acknowledgement of it either. He probably won’t say anything to her about it, but she can at least take some solace in him going to Marie. Now if only it wouldn’t be completely unethical to get information about what he says… Wait!

If he goes in and talks to Marie, that would mean the counselor would know who her soul mate is, when she doesn’t know herself. What if she sees Marie and she drops his name, or what he looks like. Maka can see it already; she’ll run into the counselor in the hallway and the kind, unassuming woman will say, ‘Hi Maka, how are you? Saw your friend  **_Dave_ ** .’

His name couldn’t be Dave, it just couldn’t be.    

She doesn’t want to know. The mystery holds it together; if she finds out his name, she won’t be able to resist finding him and then she’ll have to face the fact that this is a real thing that’s happening.

** Will you go and see her?  ** Maka prompts. 

** I guess… at least once. I’ll let you know how it goes.  **

Maka flops face down onto her bed, emotionally exhausted for the evening, but also reassured. Her Person will be in good hands with Marie.

The next day, she doesn’t ask if he’s made an appointment, doesn’t mention it for a second. Only when he tells her, a week later, that he’s gone to see the counselor do they talk about it again at all. He doesn’t say much about it, other than that he went, and Maka doesn’t want to push. She’s learned in the past couple months that he’ll talk if he wants to, and most often he does… eventually.

More drawings show up on Maka’s arms these days, and she takes it as a good sign. At her request, they’d stopped talking so much during school hours so she could wear shorter sleeves with the warming weather. Spring appears very suddenly. He still doodles though, the same spiky, swirly, abstract designs with feathers and music notes mixed together. Maka borrows Patty’s markers during lunch and colors them in, outlines them in blue and green, and draws flowers among the thorns. 

“You’ve been getting so artistic lately,” her friend notices, handing over a couple colors during lunch to borrow for the rest of the day.

“I guess,” Maka mumbles, embarrassed to say she’s only really drawing over the lines that are already there. Her arms will be littered with doodles by the end of the day, but her Person always keeps it washable so they can have a fresh slate to talk on in the evenings. 

The weeks pass like this, summer fast approaching on wings of exams and term papers. Maka holes herself up in her room after eating dinner with her dad so she can study, though mostly she just wants to write and receive notes via spirit bond. 

Her Person is funny, and charming, and she wishes it was as easy to react to his jokes as when she’s texting Liz, but her arms are skinny -- limited real estate -- and she refuses to write out her laughter. 

The things he says though, he has to be trying to make her laugh, and she feels bad leaving him hanging. 

**You’re funny,** she writes.  

** Thank God -- I was starting to worry **

Maka scoffs.  ** I promise I’m laughing.  **

It’s not a lie, she is laughing. Things have been less strained with her family since her mother moved out, things are good with her friends, things are really good with Him. It could be like this forever and she’d be happy. But, something has to give, and the most terrifying string of words starts appearing on her wrist. 

** I wish I could hear it. **

**Or see you smile at least**

Nononono. This is all bad. He’s getting too close

** I want to meet you.  **

Maka flings open her door, storms into the bathroom, and turns the bathtub faucet on full blast. Ink runs down her arms and rivulets, words disappearing as fast as they can appear. He’s trying to ask her something, ask what’s going on, but she won’t let him get the words down. 

Why won’t he stop? Why won’t he leave her alone? 

She’s gotten attached. She was so afraid of getting involved but now she cares so much and if he doesn’t end up hurting her, she’ll certainly end up hurting him; it’s in her blood. Maka Albarn is genetically coded for heartbreak and if it’s going to happen, she’d like to be the one to pull the trigger. This has to end. 

** What are you doing?!  **

The letters appear on her knee, far from the torrent of the bathtub, but directly under the tears she didn’t realize were dripping from her chin. The still wet ink smears. 

She stumbles back to her room, scrambling for her pen. Her arm is still wet and dripping streaks of tinted water, so she writes carefully under his haphazard words. 

**This isn’t a good idea**

Maybe he replies, maybe he doesn’t. Maka bundles herself into some sweats and crawls into bed, refusing to look. She’ll just go back to ignoring it and everything can go back to normal.

Right?

  
  



	2. part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate has a way of pushing people together whether they want to or not.

July sixth is the first day Maka can breathe. It’s the first day she’s checked her skin and found no new marks, after seventy three days of torture. That Guy has been trying to contact her since late April, devolving from shock, to frustration, and then to bargaining. It’s a classic case of stages of grief, and it kills her. 

He told her he loves her, and she’s trying to tell herself people don’t fall in love with people they haven’t met because biology has taught her that magnetism happens on a physical plane where hormones and pheromones exist and act upon attraction. She can pretend he doesn’t really love her, but she can’t pretend it isn’t real for her.

She won’t let this happen -- if only he could accept this. She tries to make it easier for both of them by letting go.

She hasn’t even been washing the ink off, fearful that it will show she’s still listening, still there. Every night, she’s been careful not use too much soap, not letting the fading look deliberate. Even in the summer heat, she wears long sleeves and long pants, makes sure her tights are opaque under her skirt, turns down swimming with her friends. Depression had been so easy to recognize in Him, but Maka doesn’t consider it for herself until Tsubaki shows up at her house because she hasn’t heard from her in two weeks. 

Really, it’s a dull ache. 

The ink from the past week fades in a day and Maka goes to the beach with her friends; there’s still a good chunk of summer left to appreciate, and Tsubaki won’t stand for her moping around, even without knowing what it’s all about. Liz and Patty, too, they’re all so good to her, supportive in their own ways. But it doesn’t stop Maka from feeling like a hole has been opened in her chest.

She has missed talking to him, but keeping herself from responding doesn’t hold a candle to the feeling of being on the receiving end of the same radio silence she’d subjected her Person to. 

_ Her Person _ ; can she even call him that anymore? That paper she read those months ago had said that soul bonds could fade, languishing without proper attention. What Maka doesn’t know, is if the bond is truly broken, or if he has just decided to give up. 

She’s weak, so very weak; she’d lasted seventy three days of him calling for her, but only lasts nine of him not. 

She writes the first note in months,  **Are you there?**

There’s nothing. She tries apologizing, writes down things about her family she’d been hiding, about the divorce, about her fears, that she’s sorry and she misses him. 

She misses him so goddamn much. Her forearm is filled with tiny print, but it’s all her own writing. Did he feel this empty when she didn’t respond? It’s her turn to grieve, and she can’t even say she doesn’t deserve the heartbreak when she’s brought it on herself. 

Thinking of what her mother would do strengthens her resolve, though, and Maka decides to leave the whole episode behind her. Sophomore year starts, and she’s determined to never get that attached to someone again -- she’ll just focus on school and find something more lasting to do with her life. 

By October second, she hasn’t forgotten him, but she’s at least accepted his absence, or so she thinks. Her line of fate has been broken anyway, whether she likes it or not -- she’d seen to that. 

Dr. Stein mumbles instructions about the science project they have for the semester, all the while writing barely intelligible notes about it on the board. Maka blinks out of her reminiscent stupor to see dusty chalk chicken scratch she really should be copying down. But where did her notebook go? Her hand smacks her desk loudly as she looks frantically -- she must’ve left it in her last class! Some rude girl with bubblegum pink hair whips around to shush her; the hiss is louder than the sound Maka had made in the first place. 

With no paper, and no helpful classmates looking out for her, Maka decides her arm will just have to do -- just for the important things. It feels a little unceremonious to be writing assignment instructions where she once wrote secrets, but it’s not like anyone is listening anymore. She jots down the basics of the assignment and a reminder to stop by the office store to pick up a presentation board after dinner. 

After school, bitter winds cut through the afternoon heat, abruptly shoving summer aside. Maka bundles her scarf around her while she leans into the wind on her way to get some new supplies, and a new notebook, since hers has apparently vanished.

Going to Office Depot alone is an adventure; she’s always done school shopping with her mom as a tradition. It’s an awfully big store rife with distracting items such as rainbow sharpies and organizational folders and she has no idea where presentation boards are. Maka wanders the aisles, taking her time about it, until she finds them. There’s one open even, like it’s waiting for her to take it home with her and put those rainbow sharpies to good use making beautiful graphs. Alas, there is a display only sticker on it -- where are the rest? She looks around frantically until she hears a low voice behind her.

“Looking for those three panel boards?” 

Maka whips around to see who the hell this stranger is who is talking to her. Some, presumably, teenage boy with terrible posture and a penchant for skinny jeans stands behind her, silvery eyebrows set in a firm frown. Though, maybe that’s just what his face looks like -- it’s hard to tell. She answers him cautiously. “Yes… For a science project.”

“Same. They’re up there.” The strange boy nods upwards and Maka follows his glance to a stack on the top shelf.

She stretches up on her tiptoes to reach, but they are far out of her grasp. Frustrated, she grits, “This is not very student friendly.”

“More like not very shortie friendly,” he says smugly before cracking his shoulders and reaching for the shelf. He’s not really as tall as he thinks he is, though, and he still falls short by a few inches. 

“I’ll just go ask someone for help,” Maka announces.

“I bet you could reach if you got on my back.”

Her face has never felt so warm. “What? No way, I don’t even know you.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not, but I’m assuming we go to the same school if we have the same science project.”

“With Dr. Stein?” Maka probes hesitantly. She’s never noticed this boy before in her life, and he’s certainly not in her science class. 

“Second period,” he answers. 

“Oh, I’m in fifth.” The words come out casually before she can second guess the fact that she’s talking to a stranger. Maka blinks. He may be a student at her school, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just climb on his back. Maybe she could… “I’ll just climb the shelves.”

“No way, that’s dangerous, here.” He wheels over the ladder marked ‘EMPLOYEE USE ONLY’ and swings one lanky leg over the chain. 

Maka crosses her arms and faces the other way. “Don’t blame me if someone yells at you.”

“Just keep a look out,” comes the terse reply. He’s quick to scramble up and snag two boards, which he passes to her before climbing back down.  

She mutters, “Thanks.”

He nods, and walks off to another section of the store. 

Maka doesn’t really see the boy from the store around school, but she’s not really looking. It’s just another odd encounter in her life that she doesn’t really think back on too much. A month of studying and late afternoon lacrosse practices passes, and the fall settles into her bones and drags down the corners of her mouth. Apathy and academic ambition are her weapons again winter blues. 

Halfway through November, her mother calls to say she’s coming for Thanksgiving, but she won’t eat with ‘that fucker’ (her father) so they plan to cook together Friday with Spirit out of the house. Maka plans the whole affair with excruciating detail, splitting up her grocery list by store based on availability and best deals. Her mother always did teach her to be frugal. 

Shopping around a holiday is torture; she has to balance finding a time that isn’t busy with the time things in the deli start to run out. There’s no ideal time. Early Sunday morning is her usual go to, the second the supermarket opens. She leaves just after sunrise and starts with the closest stop -- the co-op will have to wait until her list has been whittled down to over priced speciality items. At least it’s sunny, even if the clear skies mean there will be frost on the ground.

Maka rides her bike to the store and arrives with ears, nose, and cheeks red and wind-whipped. She locks her bike next to the carts and grabs a basket, eager to be in the relative warmth of the indoors -- she’ll skip the refrigerated section for now.  

“What’s up, Rudolph.” 

She nearly knocks over the fresh bread when she whips around with her shopping basket in hand. It’s her classmate, wheeling a cart back to the entrance. Has he always worked here, and she just didn’t notice because they’d never met?  

“Thanksgiving shopping,” she answers, feeling terse and under-caffeinated.  

He cocks his head like some sort of shaggy white dog. “You parents not doing it?”

“No,” Maka sighs. “I do it for my dad and me, and now I’m getting stuff to cook with my mom.” 

If he was planning on saying something, she doesn’t get to hear it; they’re interrupted by a disembodied voice over the intercom.

_ “Soul to register. Soul to register.”  _

An eyeroll and hair flip later and he’s stalking off towards the front. “That’s me. Seeya.” 

Enigmatic as ever, her classmate, Soul apparently, disappears around a corner. Maka goes about the rest of her shopping, snagging the cheapest ham before some shrew of a soccer mom can get to it. Soul is still at the register when she goes to check out, and she figures it couldn’t really hurt to go through his aisle -- better to get some early morning sarcasm than painful small talk. 

He yawns at her while bagging her groceries. With silver hair and dark red eyes, it’s hard to imagine how she’s missed noticing him, and she asks how long he’s worked here. 

“Since the summer -- usually I work after school though, just trying to pick up extra hours for the holidays,” Soul answers.

“Saving up for anything fun?” 

He snorts. “One way ticket out of here when I graduate.” 

“Oh.”

“Sorry, I guess that’s a little dark,” he backtracks. 

Maka shakes her head. The only real problem is that it almost reminds her of someone. “No, it’s fine.” 

“You want your receipt in the bag?” 

She’d almost forgotten they were in a checkout line -- how had she gotten so absorbed? “Oh, yes, thank you, have a nice day.”

He sees her off with a wave as she books it out of there. What is so familiar about the way Soul talks? It isn’t like her Person, is it? There’s no way, he’d never mentioned anything about getting a cashier job. Besides, Soul has approached her on more than one occasion, and her Almost Person had once explicitly mentioned how much he hated talking to people. It’s just a passing sort of similarity, nothing to get worked up over.

No amount of rationalization stops her from seeing him all over the school though, leading her to once again question how many people she passes in a day without knowing anything about them. She catches his name on the sign-up sheet for presentation times outside Dr. Stein’s office -- the handwriting is similar but not the same as the script she’d gotten so used to. Her lungs collapse as a deep emptiness swallows her. She doesn’t want to admit that she had been hoping Soul was Him.   

Oh well. 

Thanksgiving with just her dad is weird; Thanksgiving with just her mom is weird too, which she hadn’t expected. That can happen after a few months of not seeing someone, Maka supposes. She wishes she could tell her mom about what’s happened in the last year, and she wishes she could tell someone about how weird things are with her mom. 

Tsubaki says she gets it, but she really doesn’t. 

Maka spaces out and misses class, landing herself in after school detention for the first time in her life. Mr. Law may look nice, but he doesn’t give a single damn about the fact that this never happens to her, just telling her ‘there’s a first time for everything’ with a smirk on his face. Detention is held in one of the basement rooms she’s never been to before, so she notes the number on the back of her hand so she’ll be able to find it -- better to get it over with than skip and end up with a suspension or something awful like that. 

She tries to hold back her righteous tears as she texts her papa that she’ll be coming home late while trudging down to what might as well be a dungeon. Prepared for a stark room and humiliation, Maka is immediately shocked by the number of people there and she instantly questions the school’s attendance policy. Students mill around the desks chatting while Ms. Azusa sits in the corner desk with her nose in a book, clearly unperturbed about the volume -- until the clock hits three and she honks an airhorn.

The room settles down immediately; some students clearly have been here before. The desks rapidly fill up and Maka glances frantically around looking for a good spot. She spies white hair jutting out from a beanie and makes a beeline for the next table over. He may be face down, apparently sleeping, but she could recognize Soul anywhere -- now that she’s paying attention.

“Hey.” She drops her books on the table with a slap to get his attention. 

He jolts, then relaxes again when he sees it’s her. “Oh, pigtails, what’re you in for?”

“It’s Maka.” She tugs at her hair, suddenly self conscious of the style. “I missed class accidentally.”

“Accidentally? I missed class on purpose -- can’t fucking handle geometry.” 

“Settle down, work on something school related, no talking,” Ms. Azusa announces sternly. 

Whatever Maka had been planning on saying will have to wait; she quickly snaps her mouth shut and opens one of her school books. There’s no reason to waste the time if she can be getting a head start on her homework for the night. She’s a couple problems into her precalculus assignment when a sly note slides in front of her.

It simply reads:  **Nerd.**

**I’ll have to do it at some point,** she writes back, pushing the paper back to Soul’s desk. 

**Doesn’t mean you have to do it now… I’m bored**

**What do you expect me to do about it??**

**Let’s play a game -- 20 questions or something**

Horror rises in Maka’s chest; twenty questions is the game of the asshat. She’s seen this happen the same way too many times with boys trying to get in Liz’s pants. She writes,  **You mean that game guys use to ask girls their bra size? No thanks.**

**What? No! I wouldn’t ask that. I just wanna find out what music you listen to**

That’s almost as bad; her music taste is abysmal and she knows it. His notebook, on the other hand, is covered with band stickers and she’s pretty sure he’ll be offended by just the word ‘dubstep.’ She doesn’t want to say and she tells him this.

Maka tacks on,  **I don’t really listen to much music…** because it’s not really a lie, per se, but also doesn’t reveal the shameful bit of music she does partake. 

She suggests hangman, but he says he’s not good with words and doesn’t trust her not to smoke him via vocabulary. 

A strangled snort escapes her mouth before she can stop it and Ms. Azusa shoots her a dirty look from the front before returning to her book.  **What makes you think I’m a wordsmith?**

**Good handwriting?**

**I think most of the greats were completely illegible -- too much going on in their heads to focus on hand eye coordination**

Soul takes a moment to read over her note before jotting down another question,  **So you do write?**

**I try… do you?** she asks. 

**I wrote music I guess**

**I want to hear it**

**No you don’t**

An appropriate response eludes her -- she’d like to argue for the sake of it, but she can’t really say she’s sure it’s great when she hasn’t heard it and hasn’t the capacity to judge. He must be able to tell she’s struggling, though, and takes the paper back to write on it again. 

**What about drawing?**

The last time she drew, she was coloring in the lines her long lost soulmate had left for her. Maybe this is a bad idea… Soul is nice though. It might not be fate or destiny or some other crap, but Maka can tell a tentative friendship when one hits her in the face. She could forge ahead, keeping a safe distance of course; drawing isn’t exactly baring her soul. 

She responds carefully,  **I’m not very good…**

**That’s okay it’s just for fun. I’ll start something and you can add on.**

The lines Soul draws are smooth and flowing. He draws quirky little monsters and Maka adds weird faces to them that she wishes fit better. She apologizes for drawing the eyes unevenly but he assures her they’re supposed to be ugly. Mushrooms, trees, and lopsided rabbits all come to life under his pen, and through the middle, Maka can’t help but wrap them in thorny vines. When before she had only colored the lines, now she wants her Person’s art style to come to life on paper. 

One particular line across some mystery animal’s neck looks a little too close to a choker out of the nineties for either of their comforts.

**Emo much??** Soul notes, emphasizing his point with multiple underlines and a big arrow to the offending necklace. 

Maka stifles her laughter and adds black eyeliner and lipstick to the poor creature in question.

**Like you can talk -- with your black nail polish!**

His hands immediately curl defensively.  **It was a dare**

**Sure it was**

**Sure I’m sure. Black polish is very eighth grade.**

The two hour long detention passes in a flash and Maka’s left with absolutely no homework done, but a very full page of doodles and notes. It’s comforting to look at, though she wishes it were on her skin and not on paper. 

They stand up and she breaks their enforced silence. “Can I keep this?”

“Gonna hang it on your fridge?” Laughter flickers in his eyes. It warms her. 

“Nah, I’ll just blow it up to poster size and put it on my ceiling so I can look at it  _ all the time _ ,” she teases. If there’s one thing she misses about her Person, it’s the sarcasm, and Soul’s sense of humor is a salve to that particular hole in her life. 

Soul shrugs noncommittally, though his dimple betrays his amusement. “Go for it.” 

She tucks the page into her her notebook and packs up her bag. He waits for her so they can walk out together. As she heads for the bike rack out front, Soul keeps looking like he’s going to peel off from walking at her side, but second guesses himself every time, like he’s waiting for closure.  

They reach her bike and Maka coughs. “Well, I’m gonna ride home.” 

“Oh, okay. I’m uh… in the parking lot so I guess I should go -- unless you want a ride?” Soul twists his hands behind his back.

“I can’t leave my bike here, unless you happen to have a bike rack?”

“No, it’s my brother’s shitty hand-me-down car…”

He still hasn’t moved; Maka furrows her eyebrows.

There’s a minute voice crack when he cautiously says, “I guess I’ll see you around?”

Something about the uncertainty in his tone makes her want to. “Yeah. See you.” 

A halting nod and a shrug later and he’s off in the opposite direction. Maka hops on her bike and flies home -- it’s already five and she still has a pile of homework to get done, no thanks to being distracted by a certain shark-toothed slacker boy. It’s still a mystery what he is to her, or what he represents, but she thinks there’s a potential for a new beginning, even if she doesn’t feel for him the same way she’d felt about  _ Him.  _

Her brain is foggy -- maybe a nice hot shower will clear her up and get her focused for studying. She peels off her clothes into a growing heap on the bathroom floor, shivering a little in the drafty house without the extra layers of protection. Out of place ink catches her eye when she reaches to turn on the water, and she promptly has to sit down on the closed toilet seat. 

The shivers intensify as she reads the tiny words, clear as day,  **I’m sorry.**

Panic wells up in her throat. Did she write that? No, it’s not her handwriting, she’d surely recognize this script anywhere. Maka crawls over to her clothes, throws her sweatshirt back on and flees to her room pantsless. She grabs a pen from her desk and buries herself in the pile of blankets on her bed, leaving only her face and her arms out in the cold. The tip of her pen hovers above her skin for what seems like ages before she can psyche herself up enough to put anything down.

She manages a single dot before she chickens out and hides her face in her bedding. This is too much for her heart to handle -- after months of trying to get over it. Of course, he catches her tiny little mark and writes,  **Are you there?**

**Yes,** she manages to scribble out, though the lines are shaky. 

**I’m sorry,** he repeats, though she’s not sure exactly what he’s sorry for.  **I did something pretty bad.**

**What??** Jumping straight to confession can’t be a good sign, and Maka immediately imagines the worst possible scenarios in which he’s hurt himself, or run away. If he’s in trouble and she should’ve been there she won’t be able to forgive herself.  **Are you okay?**

He answers quickly,  **Yes, I’m fine. That might’ve been a bit dramatic… I think you’re going to be mad at me though.**

Maka lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding before writing a carefully measured answer.  **I’m already mad at you. You didn’t respond to me.**

**Don’t pull that.** The words come fast and furious, his scrawl getting messier by the second.  **YOU didn’t respond to ME! And then expect me to just fall back in after I had finally given up?**

**I thought I explained myself.** It’s so frustrating holding back tears when she’s so  _ mad _ \-- being angry isn’t supposed to make her cry! She wants to yell, but the only equivalent is to write harder, which really only hurts herself. 

She has homework to do, finals to study for -- she doesn’t need him coming at her making her feel terrible about how terribly she treated him.

**Just because you have a reason doesn’t mean it wasn’t a shitty thing to do.**

Her hurt and regret boils in her stomach, like she’s going to throw up, but she is still more afraid that he’ll stop talking than that he’ll say anything else to hurt her. Honestly, she probably deserves both.  **Why are you even talking to me now then? I thought I was over this too!**

It takes a few minutes for his next words to appear. Just two minutes and she’s back exactly where she was in July. This time he does answer her at least.  **I had to apologize.**

**For cutting me out? It’s a little late…**

**…It’s something else**

Maka’s heart doesn’t race so much as pound loudly in her ears as she waits for him to spit it out.

**I tried to find you.**

Oh God. 

**When you wrote down places you had to be, i tried to find you. It was weird and wrong and it didn’t even work anyway. I was so sure I would just recognize you or something but I guess it doesn’t work like that.**

**What? When?**

All the times she’d written her errands down, not thinking he was still listening, come rushing to mind -- all those times… she’d been in the same place with him and not even known?

**The office store… When you were grocery shopping I picked up the whole weekend of shifts just to cover my bases… I went to detention on purpose… it’s fucked up. I fucked up.**

It crosses a lot of boundaries, and Maka wants to be pissed as hell over it. The only problem is that she’s subconsciously been looking for him this whole time too, examining every bit of handwriting she comes across, lurking around the music room, even walking slower outside Marie’s office on the off chance that he actually kept going to counseling.  

**I was looking for you too,** she admits, adding,  **I didn’t have much to go on though.**

**Oh.**

**After all this time, I still miss you. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to see you until you weren’t there anymore.**

**Pretty sure that’s called ‘taking someone for granted’**

Ouch. That hurts, and she lets him know it. He confesses he’s still bitter, but they’re still at an impass. 

**Is that it, then? Is that all you wanted to tell me**

**I guess. Doesn’t make me feel any less like shit.**

It’s a cheap trick to use his own line on him, but she still writes,  **Pretty sure that’s called ‘guilt’**

**Touché**

Even when they’re fighting, he still makes her laugh. 

**Doesn’t stop me from wanting to see you, either.**

**I thought you were mad at me? I think I’d be scared to see you.**

**Scared?**

**That you’d yell… I’d certainly be nervous! I just don’t understand why you haven’t said anything until now.**

**I couldn’t go getting attached again -- what if you went and decided to disappear again? It’s not fair to expect me to be there when you want me to.**

Maka’s eyes sting, but she’s still repressed enough to keep herself contained.  **I know. I know. It was a mistake**

**Some mistake**

If this is going to work, one of them is going to have to stop running their conversation in a downward spiral and cut to the chase.  **Do you want to meet or not?**

It’s another nerve wracking wait for a response. Maka desperately wishes there were read receipts on soul bond messages, but at least she can see when he starts writing. 

**I do -- but if you want to try being friends again, you gotta be there.**

She swallows her pride and her fears in a single gulp.  **I’m all in.**

**Music room after school? If you change your mind I’ll quit bugging you and you can write your errands in peace. But, if you come, I want to play something for you.**

Her insides twist knowing that he doesn’t trust her, but all she can do is come through one more time and fill some of the cracks she made. There’s no way she’ll let him down him again. 

The next day at school, she feel sick to her stomach from start to finish, but Maka won’t miss a second of class. Fun as it might be to see Soul again if he happens to frequent detention, seeing her Person has to come first. 

She practically races to the band room after her last class to be there first so he can’t doubt her sincerity. Air is scarce to come by as she bursts in through the doors. Athletic as she is, running up the stairs doesn’t usually make her so winded, but there was so little breath in her lungs togin with. Having a sweaty (and probably flushed) face is the least of her problems though -- the music room is apparently a popular hangout spot after school for students practicing, playing cards, or just sitting around. Who knew there were so many musicians in this school? 

At least there’s one she already knows. 

Soul lounges on the choir risers, playing a game on his phone. Maka plops down next to him.

“Hey,” she says, still a little out of breath. 

If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’s dismissive when he greets her, “Oh...  Hey Maka.”  

She might as well make small talk while she waits for… whoever. “What are you up to?” 

“I’m just waiting for someone,” he answers sullenly. “Dunno if they’ll show, though.” 

“Oh, I’m meeting someone too.” Maka digs in her backpack for a pen so she can tell her Person that she’s here. She’s praying he didn’t change his mind about giving her a second chance.

**Where are you?** she writes in small print on the side of her hand as sneakily as she can. All she can do is lean back and wait. Soul is still on his phone when she looks over, though he’s not texting -- it almost seems like he’s just looking at it to pass the time. Then, something startles him and he drops his phone, but instead of reaching to pick it up, he just looks at his hand in surprise before wildly glancing around the room. 

Maka leans over a bit and squints to see what he had been looking at. Her stomach drops. There on the side of his hand sit tiny letters that match hers exactly. This can’t be real.

“Soul, let me see your hand!” When she reaches for him, he shies away before she can get a better look, but she’s sure she saw it! If he’s going to get self conscious though, she’ll just have to show him hers. “Or just look!”  

Their eyes widen in sync. Soul grabs her hand and examines in, then shoves her sleeve up her arm to see the faded ink from the night before. 

“It’s you,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. 

“But…” Maka squeaks. “Your handwriting!” 

“It’s… different -- my arm is flexible.” His voice cracks and he shies away again. 

She gasps as she reels from the implications. “At the office store… and the supermarket…”

“I signed up for those hours--”

“You skipped class to get in detention?”

Usually half lidded, his red eyes have never looked so big. One hand drifts up to his face to cover his gaping mouth. “I was desperate. Jesus Christ, Maka.”

“Your drawing is different,” she blurts, remembering the differences between the doodles she knew, and the ones he did in detention.

“A lot of things changed for me. Maka, I think you might’ve saved my life.” He starts to reach for her hand but pauses. “Can I--?”

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” She flings her arms around his shoulders in response nearly falling into his lap in the process. “And, God, Soul, it’s you!”

It’s the only phrase she knows now, and she repeats it in various shades of disbelief and exuberance. 

“I guess fate wouldn’t let us ignore each other.” That rough, deadpan voice she’s only just started to get used to now moves her. He cautiously slips his arms around her waist and hugs her, though his grasp is fragile. 

All good things must come to an end though, and this embrace is no exception. When Soul leans away from her though, he’s quick to put his hand over hers. “I wanted to show you what I’ve been working on.”

“The composition I saw?” 

He nods, a little shy. “Mhm, with some new parts. Let’s go to the practice room.”

Maka follows him to the little room she’d first tried and failed to play his music in, making a passing joke that he’d said she wouldn’t like it. 

This time she doesn’t sit on the bench, but in the corner, while Soul slides into place. He starts to play and the chords swing between discordant and aching for purpose, crashing down the scales and rumbling in the bass range like thunder. 

Maybe she had been on the right track, afterall. 

The melody is high and haunting under his talented fingers though, where under hers, it was nothing. Wherever she had fumbled, he dances. It pulls her and holds her taut, then drops off with a single note like a bell. 

They’re both breathing hard now -- Soul practically pants when he asks her what she thought.

“It was a little scary,” Maka comments honestly, “like a winter storm on the ocean.”

“Did you like it?”

Sort of? ‘Like’ doesn’t seem like the right word. “Maybe? I’m not sure, but I want to hear it again because it’s yours.       

“Maybe not now, though.” A timid smile lifts the corner of his mouth, and there’s that dimple. She’d like to brush her thumb across it and maybe her mouth.

Maka nods in agreement. “No, I want to hear how you’ve been -- I was worried about you.”

“You mean, you’re concerned that I stayed in my bed crying and dysfunctional,” he accuses. It’s not really a lie so she can’t deny it. Apparently, he doesn’t expect an answer because he keeps going. “I actually have been really good. It was rough for a bit, but I still went to see Marie, and she actually did end up having to sorta rat me out to my parents. I know it’s her job, and I don’t blame her for it, but that was basically my worst nightmare.”

“Did they react badly?!” 

Soul sighs. The smile that had been slowly growing on his face splits into a sheepish grin. “No, it was a lot less scary than I thought, actually. Whatever I was afraid of didn’t happen and they were able to find a psychiatrist to see me during the summer, and then I’ve been taking antidepressants since the start of the school year.” 

A lump forms in Maka’s throat. The heavy weight in her stomach starts to lift a little; Soul sounds so hopeful. “And that’s working for you?” 

“So far, I guess,” he mumbles, scrubbing the back of his neck as every bit of visible skin starts to pink. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better.” 

Maka rises and sits on the edge of the piano bench. Only a few inches separate them, but it’s still an awkward scootch to get just close enough to him for their shoulders to brush. 

One of his hands drops from the piano to her knee, surprisingly heavy. “I missed you though, and then here I find out you’ve been right in front of me and I missed the signs.” 

He sounds so surprised, she’s almost worried he’s dissatisfied with who she is. Insecurity gets the best of her and she abruptly spouts, “Are you disappointed it’s me?”

“No? How could I be? You’re you!” he babbles, rubbing nervous circles with his thumb. “I can’t explain it, but I’m happy to see you.”

Adoration fills his whole face -- he’s enamoured with her for existing, knowing his demons and trying her best to fend them off. It moves her, body and soul to gravitate closer to him, grazing her fingers through his hair and fulfilling her thirst for dimple touching. A deep flush colors his cheeks and ears, peeking out through shaggy white. Maka cups his face and skims his forehead with the barest of kisses. 

There’s a strangled noise in the back of his throat, but an arm is already around her waist again. 

It’s hard for him to keep eye contact with her when she pulls back; he keeps flicking his glance down. But when she kisses his cheek, right there on that charming indent, he says her name, solemn and low. 

_ “Maka, _ ” he repeats it several times, like he’s getting used to the feel of it on his lips. She wants to know what it feels like too. 

Grazing her way to his mouth is a triumph, and feeling him murmur to her is something close to holy. They’re both too nervous and trembling to get any further than little butterfly kisses -- Soul quickly decides this is not going to be a one sided affair. Mostly they hold hands until Maka starts giggling. Laughter starts bubbling out, her giddiness finally overcoming her shyness. 

Soul doesn’t even look offended. He just twists his body next to her to pull her into another hug, saying, “I really like your smile.”


End file.
